


Visiting Hours

by Monker



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: After series 2, Camille knows what's up, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Imagine that, Richard Poole puts his foot in his mouth, awkward!richard, but 3.01 doesn't exist, everybody sees it but him, original case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monker/pseuds/Monker
Summary: When the evidence in a case forces to Richard to lock up Camille for the remainder of the investigation, he becomes more determined than ever to prove her innocence. And this strange predicament causes both prisoner and detective to discover something about their relationship.





	1. Motivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello DiP fandom! This is my first attempt at writing for this category, so I do hope you like it. I discovered the show only a few weeks ago and instantly fell in love with Richard and Camille. After 3.01, I knew that I had to jump into the fandom and write something to make myself feel better, so I started on this little story.
> 
> Also, I must always thank (and in this case, also apologize to) my fabulous editor and forever friend acemerrill. I am sorry for tricking you into getting attached to this pairing, knowing where it would lead. But I so appreciate your continued support and help in making my writing the best it can be. You are the best. And I owe you one. (More like three.) ;)
> 
> This takes place sometime between series 2 and 3. So without further ado...
> 
> Deep breath in...deep breath out...here we go!

This was absurd. He knew that. But the Commissioner had been very clear; no special consideration was to be given to Camille during this investigation. She was to be handled with all the usual safeguards and protocols rendered to a normal suspect.

At least three eye-witnesses could place her at the scene, and one even claimed to physically see the attack take place (a rather questionable assertion, but Richard would work that out later). Add to that the facts that Camille didn't have an alibi during the time of the murder, and that the murder weapon was an item seen in her possession a mere hours prior, it was in many ways, very close to being a textbook open-and-shut case.

Except, of course, that it was Camille they were talking about. Which in turn, brought him back to his initial thought: This was absurd.

Richard's last reasonable excuse for not charging her with the crime was the blessed fact that she had absolutely no motive whatsoever. She didn't even know the victim, and had no reason for possibly wanting him dead.

Well, she had technically _heard_ of the victim, but that wasn't too damning considering the fact that he was apparently some sort of celebrity from the U.S. (Richard had never heard of him, but when he admitted as much, he only got strange looks from Fidel, Dwayne, and the Commissioner.) And because the victim was a person of some note, his murder had drummed up all sorts of media attention. Richard had never seen so many video cameras on the island, and this was a _tourist destination_. No, the press was all over this case, which was why the Commissioner had ordered Camille be properly processed and detained until the investigation was concluded. No exceptions. He didn't want the global media reporting that the police force in Saint-Marie was anything less than totally fair, objective, and efficient.

So now, Richard's team was down a man (or, erm, woman), and facing one of his most challenging cases to date, all underneath a microscope, and with the Commissioner breathing down his neck for a hasty resolution. Brilliant.

To top it all off, he was fairly certain that the Detective Sergeant currently tucked away in his holding cell must be pretty cranky by now. Richard took a deep breath and grabbed a notepad and pencil from his desk on his way to the cells.

Camille was pacing inside the first one. Back and forth. The image brought to mind thoughts of a caged tiger, restless for its morning meal. And just as intimidating. She instantly came to a halt and turned to face him when she heard him enter. "Finally!" she exclaimed, flapping her arms against her sides.

Yep. Cranky.

"Where have you been, Richard? I have been stuck in here for hours!" 

Richard blinked incredulously, "Me? I have been investigating _a murder_ , thank you!"

"Very good," she said, in a way that still sounded like a berating instead of an applause. She planted one hand on her hip and gestured out at him wildly with the other one. "Now when are you going to let me out so I can actually be of some use in that?"

Richard hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other.

Camille froze. With a heavy sigh, she ran both hands through her hair. "Je ne le crois pas," she whispered in disbelief, turning away from Richard to do a little 360 in her cell. When she looked back at him, the Detective Inspector had the courtesy to look a little ashamed. "You aren't letting me out." 

Richard quirked an eyebrow at her regretfully. "I'm sorry Camille. It's the Commissioner; The press has got him nervous. He's not giving us any slack on this one, I'm afraid."

 "What do you mean 'press'?" 

"Island's swarming with them. Newspapers, magazines, I was even stopped by a reporter from a _website_ on my way back to the station just now. I didn't even know websites could _have_ reporters. This victim of yours-"

" ** _He wasn't my victim_**!"

Richard threw his hands up in defense and quickly rattled off, "Right, no. No-no. My mistake. Slip of the tongue."

Camille's flurry of rage simmered down when she saw that he sincerely didn't mean to say it. But she still gave him a warning look as he continued.

"As I was saying, _THE_ victim, was apparently some sort of actor or something. Appeared in a few popular movies, I suppose."

Now, Camille seemed almost fond as her anger seemed to totally subside. "Oh Richard," she said, like talking to a child who had just done something cutely naive. She turned and walked herself over to her little cot and sat down, tucking her feet up under her and leaning back against the wall. "He played The Bolt. Biggest new superhero at the moment. I'm surprised you've never heard of him."

Richard rolled his eyes, just barely, and looked down at the pad in his hands. "No you're not," he clarified.

Now she was grinning at him. "No I'm not," she confirmed.

He too let a little smile tug at his lips, although his was for a slightly different reason.

She seemed somehow aware of this. "What?" she asked.

Richard gave a little shrug, regarding her in that jail cell with a strange sense of nostalgia. "Nothing, just...reminds me a little of the first time I met you."

She smiled again as she tipped her head back against the cool wall of the cell. "You and that stupid boat. I could have outswum Dwayne, you know."

"I have a funny feeling you're right. Here," he said, reaching forward and holding the small notepad through the bars. To keep her from having to get up to reach it, he executed a nice little toss and the pad landed by her feet.

"What's this?" she asked, opening it up to reveal the blank pages. She was half hoping that it would contain his notes on the case so far. But that was just wishful thinking.

"I'll be needing a list of names from you. Anyone who might wish you ill."

Camille rolled her eyes at the task. "I am a police detective, Richard. I have put dozens of dangerous and violent people behind bars. Any one of them could-"

"Yes, and I already have sufficient record of all of those names. No, I mean the ones I _won't_ find on a police database somewhere. People from your personal life. Old friends, professional rivals..." Richard peered at her from beneath his lashes, "... ex-romantic partners." At that, Camille looked up at him and he instantly looked down at his shoes. "Just," he cleared his throat, "anyone you can think of that might um, want to frame you for something like this."

She nodded. "It might take me a while."

"I'll come back and check on your progress in the morning."

Just as he was about to turn and make his retreat, Camille straightened up on the cot and called, "Wait."

He did, and he looked at her expectantly. It was then that she realized she didn't really have a follow-up to that. "Can I invite you in?" she said, gesturing to her new, humble abode like a hostess welcoming a guest in for tea.

Or a beautiful woman at the end of a very successful date.

Richard paused and glanced down at the cot, then back up at her. He looked over his shoulder and had to lean back on his heel in order to peer into the main office area. Fidel and Dwayne were both working diligently at their desks. (The whole office was in overdrive, trying to bring Camille's accuser to justice. Right now, Richard was coming in third in a three-man race as far as case productivity was concerned.) "Um," he said, and when he looked back at Camille, she merely rolled her eyes at him.

"Come on, Richard. I won't try to escape, I promise."

"I, what? No. That isn't what I was... Never mind," and he walked back into the offices to get the cell key.

Both other men halted their work when they heard him enter. They gave him pointed looks and Richard felt awkward beneath their scrutiny. He lifted the key from his desk without even looking down, hoping it was subtle. The other men shared a knowing look, during which, Richard made his escape. That was uncomfortable.

He reentered the cell room and brought the key triumphantly into view. He was rewarded with a lovely smile from his prisoner, and he tried not to let that make him as giddy as it could. After unlocking the cell, he opened the door wide and walked inside. He wasn't entirely sure what the purpose of all of this was, and now that he was inside the cell, he suddenly felt odd.

Camille gestured to the cot and they both moved to it and sat down. Immediately, Richard winced and resituated himself. "God, that is acutely uncomfortable!" he said, glaring down at the insulting excuse for furniture. This was the first time he had ever actually sat on one of these things, and he suddenly found himself feeling a little sorry for all of the people he had locked up in here overnight, criminals though they be. "Are you going to be alright in here all night?" he asked, rather knowing the answer before she even gave it.

Camille thought about that for a moment, squinting her eyes up at the ceiling for exaggerated effect. "What would you do if I said 'no?'"

Richard bit his lip in thought and mumbled, "That's a good point..." He could hardly call the whole thing off, though that might be precisely what he wanted to do. Then his eyes landed on the cot in the other cell. "Ah," he exclaimed, and rose to his feet.

Leaving Camille's cell, he stopped only to collect the key from the lock before heading over to the other cell and letting himself in. Camille watched with a fair amount of amusement as he methodically stripped the other cot of all of its meager bedding and carried the heap back into Camille's cell. He stood before her and leaned pointedly with his entire body. Getting the message, and giving a tiny chuckle, Camille stood from the cot and let him have at it. "Extra padding," he explained as he doubled up the blanket and added it to the cot. Then he picked up both pillows and leaned them against the longest wall, providing a sort of cushioned back support to their makeshift couch. When he was done, he straightened up and looked back at his partner again.

"Thank you," she said, both oddly touched and mildly impressed.

"I'll bring you proper bedding tomorrow. And uh, while we're at it, you'd better give me a list of anything you'll be wanting from home. I can have your mother prepare a bag for you."

"Ah, my guess is, she already has," Camille said, sitting down on the cot once again and hiking one leg up underneath her.

Richard followed suit, but kept both his feet planted on the ground. "You're probably right," he concurred.

When silence fell between them, Camille just sighed and leaned her head back against the wall again. Initially, when she had asked him to stay, he imagined it was because there was something else she wanted to discuss with him. But now that she had the chance, she grew completely silent. Richard was slightly confused by this, but also somewhat pleased. Maybe all she wanted was his company. And that was a pleasant (if somewhat alarming) thought. Richard turned his head and looked down at her, acutely aware of the fact that her forehead was only a short distance away from resting on his shoulder. He was pondering what his reaction might be if that gap were to disappear, when her voice suddenly startled him out of that thought.

"So you cannot tell me anything about the case, can you?"

Richard sighed and looked straight ahead again. "Afraid not," he said, feeling as gloomy by the notion as she was. "Which is a pity...I should like to have your eyes on this one. It's proving to be...puzzling."

Camille shifted, another inch disappearing from the gap, though neither seemed to notice. "Don't they all start out that way?"

Richard merely hummed in agreement.

When she spoke again, her voice sounded smaller, more timid than he could recall ever hearing it before. "But Richard?" she said, "You...you aren't worried. Are you?"

Richard turned his head to look at her just as she lifted her head to look at him. They were mere inches apart. It took all of his willpower not to leap backwards from the proximity; instead, he calmly swallowed and said, "Worried that they'll get away with it?"

She looked back and forth between each of his steely eyes, and nodded.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not worried."

"Sir?"

This time he did jump, but only slightly. He turned away from her to find Fidel standing in the door way, staring at them through the still open cell door. "Yes, what is it, Fidel?" He could feel Camille shift her weight slightly on the cot to lean forward to peer around Richard at her colleague.

"I'm sorry sir, it's just that, I printed those photographs like you said? And I noticed something."

Richard nodded, trying very hard to slip back into professional mode and forget about the beautiful woman peering over his shoulder. "Yes, very good Fidel. I'll be there in just a moment."

The officer nodded, passed one comforting glance at Camille, and then promptly vacated the doorway.

Richard turned and looked back at his partner. She had sat up straighter on her side of the cot and was looking down at the notepad in her hands, rubbing her thumbs across the surface of it thoughtfully. "I can't imagine who might want to hurt me like this," she said after a moment.

"Neither can I," Richard confessed quietly. When that caused her to once again lift her eyes to him, Richard returned the gaze firmly. "But I _will_ find them. I will solve this.... Do you believe me?"

With almost no hesitation, Camille solemnly nodded her head. "Yes, I do."

He pinched his lips together in a sort of stern resolve, and gave a curt nod in return. It was the first time that she saw any hint of exactly how angry this ordeal was making him. She realized she had never really seen him angry. Vexed, definitely. Irritated, yes. But this? This was a different kind of angry. A cold kind of angry. And it was then that Camille realized, whoever this was who was putting her through all this...she almost felt sorry for them. Because Richard Poole intended to destroy them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's chapter one! I will have the second chapter posted soon, but in the meantime, I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on this one. Any feedback would be appreciated, as this is my first pass at writing these characters.
> 
> Also, after paying closer attention during some episode rewatches, I realize that this story apparently takes place in an AU where the cell bunks actually have bedding on them. lol. Oh well. Can't get it all right, I suppose.
> 
> And I do not speak French, so anyone who does it welcome to correct me. But according to google translate, what Camille mumbles to herself is "I can't believe this."
> 
> Thanks for reading you guys! And I'll have the next chapter ready for you guys soon!


	2. Investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the terrific feedback on chapter one! With this being my first DiP story, I really appreciate the warm welcome. Hope you like chapter two!
> 
> I admit I haven't seen much past 3.01, so some of the background information I provide for Camille here might not be canon compliant. But hopefully that won't be too much of an issue for you guys.

"Tell me about Pascal Moreau," Richard said, in lieu of a proper greeting as he strode into the cell room.

Camille had been laughing with Dwayne about something while she unpacked her mother's giftbag. But upon hearing Richard's frank question, the humor quickly left her face. The book she had just pulled from the suitcase, she held against her hip as she watched Richard with a strange expression for a few seconds. Then, she turned back to the other man and said, "Thanks for bringing this by, Dwayne."

The officer knew when he was being dismissed. He simply nodded and said, "Of course. Anything you need," and turned to leave. As he passed, he shared a questioning look with Richard, whose only reply was to echo the look back to him. When he had gone, Camille finally spoke again.

"Where did you hear that name?" Something about the way she asked the question told Richard that this was not going to be a very pleasant conversation.

"I asked your mother the same question I asked you: If she knew of anyone who might wish you harm. She gave me his name...called him 'a tyrant'."

Camille dropped her gaze away from his and tossed the book onto her pillow. "Maman exaggerates."

Richard didn't answer that, just continued waiting for a proper answer, his bottom lip tucked in between his teeth. When she eventually looked back up at him, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Camille sighed, "He was an old boyfriend."

Richard swallowed with a little nod. Yep, he was definitely going to hate this conversation.

"In Paris. Back in my university days," she concluded.

"...You were fond of him."

Camille nodded winsomely, "For a while."

Somehow, whether in her body language or in her tone of voice, or perhaps it was a combination of the two, she seemed to transform before his very eyes. He had never before found a topic that managed to render his strong, competent, warrior of a partner into such a meek little flower. It felt as though he was in fact talking with that university student herself instead of the confident woman she eventually became. He was stunned, and perhaps also a little charmed, by the transformation. He found that he wanted to end this interview right here, before he was made to ask something painful.

Truth be told, he didn't want to ask any more questions for multiple reasons, partially to protect her from having to answer them, but mostly to protect himself from having to hear the answers.

But he was a detective. And if her mother insinuated that this man might have some sort of motive, well then there was no way of avoiding this.

"And...things were serious?" he asked, already hating himself.

To that, she shrugged before answering, "As serious as two kids probably could be."

"How did things end?"

Camille dropped her gaze again, knowing that question was coming, but uncertain of exactly how to answer it. How much to tell. In the end, she decided just to say, "I do not think he is a suspect, Richard."

Richard took a deep breath as he saw the invisible walls erect around her heart, like a frosty dew settling over the petals of a rose.

She went on, "Pascal was...he was sweet, but I don't believe he could come up with a scheme like this. He was a simple boy. Not diabolical enough to frame someone for murder."

Mentally, Richard had to wrestle down the instinctual part of his brain that wanted to object to hearing Camille describe another man as 'sweet.' That wasn't what this was about. He needed to focus. And somehow, he needed to convince her to open up to him. "Young flings are often naive," he said. "You've grown since then. It's possible so too has this Mr. Moreau. I'm afraid I'll need to know what potential motive he might have before I can rule him out entirely."

"But I am a detective too, Richard. I know a suspect when I see one and I'm telling you-"

"Nevertheless, Sergeant, you're not the investigator on this case. I'm afraid I must insist-"

"Richard, it wasn't him," there was a note of warning in her voice.

"Camille-"

"There was another girl," she snapped.

Richard's brain stuttered to a stop. He was in the middle of thinking through another strategy for convincing her to be honest with him, and then out of nowhere, she whips out the most illogical thing she probably could have said. "There...what?"

"He was seeing another girl. And I found out about it."

"Ano-. As in..."

"He cheated on me, Richard! Is that so hard to understand?" She was practically yelling now.

"Well, _yes_! Quite frankly." He matched her in volume as his brilliant mind tried to solve an unsolvable problem. "It's just that...I simply have a hard time imagining how someone could pos..." he looked up at her to find a sort of softly stunned expression on her face, her mouth barely agape. He suddenly realized what he was about to say, what secret he was about to reveal, and he snapped his mouth shut with a click of his teeth. He scowled and looked away. "Never mind," he said, wondering if the heat in his cheeks was visible or not. "That," he cleared his throat, "That doesn't account for why your mother would call him a tyrant. A fool? Yes. Blind? Undoubtedly."

Camille brought a hand to her lips to hide the smile he was unknowingly causing.

Richard went on, "But tyrant? That's a very specific word."

"Yes, that probably comes from the one time he tried to hit me."

"He **_what_**?!"

"He missed," she said frankly, the steely look in her eye insinuating that she probably had better aim.

"You mean to say that he..." Richard couldn't even finish the sentence. His jaw just dropped in absolute outrage. He turned away from her and began pacing outside the bars of her cell, just as she had done the night before. He started mumbling to himself. "I can't believe...What sort of _idiotic_..." He stopped on a dime and spun around, pointing an accusing finger at her and totally disregarding the look of amusement on her face. "And what's with you calling him _'sweet'_? I think perhaps you need to reconsider your definition of that word."

"He _was_ sweet," she insisted. "He just didn't respond to liquor very well. Which, also, is why he never drank again after that."

"Camille!" he said, still outraged and taking a step towards the bars, "Why are you defending him? Everything about this man makes him sound like a complete-"

"Because I loved him," she exclaimed, matching him on the other side of the bars.

Immediately, Richard's tirade came to a halt and his mouth hung loosely opened. He blinked at her dumbly, amazed at how much those words stung in his chest.

When she spoke again, her words were softer. "At least...it was whatever passed for love when you are eighteen."

Still, he didn't reply. He couldn't think of any words. His entire, exhaustive vocabulary rendered useless in a single, metaphoric blow to his gut. So, after a while, he just nodded, pretending to know what she meant. Although truth be told, he wasn't confident that he knew what passed for love at any age.

"And well, I think I've learned a better definition for _that_ word now." She gazed at him pointedly, reaching her hand up to grasp the bar by her face.

For the flash of an instant, Richard thought she meant to rest that hand against his cheek, and he instinctually flinched backward away from her touch. His mind whirled around behind his eyes as he tried to calculate and analyze his own emotions. There were a fair number of them.

He felt surprise, a sort of guttural shock at hearing her profess to having loved someone. A sense of longing too, a wish (not for the first time) that he could relate to such a feeling. He also felt a willful desire to reject ever having heard her say it at all. And, god help him, he felt the distinct pang of jealousy as well. (He logged that feeling away quickly. No idea how to handle that one just yet.) And he was also confused, puzzled by her last statement. He was quite sure that she meant to be telling him something with those words, and the patient, soft expression she was displaying to him now seemed to communicate something too. Almost as though she could track each of these emotions on his face as he discovered them, and she was waiting for him to reach some carefully-laid-out conclusion. And that made him feel extremely self-conscious.

In an instant, he suddenly became aware of how closely they were standing, and how the heat of her gaze seemed to be burning into him. Then, she did touch him.

With her free hand, she reached through the bars and rested it on his chest, just over his heart. Her fingers curled to delicately straighten his tie. No wait, not straighten. Grab. Her fingers curled over his tie, just below the knot, and were closing around it in a firm hold. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he felt a light pressure on the back of his neck as she gently began to pull his head forward.

 "Richard," she said softly.

This was absurd. This was impossible. And yet, all the evidence was there. It was very plainly happening, impossible though it be. Richard knew he could resist her, technically. The amount of pressure she was applying to the tie was rather lax and he could easily deploy the amount of minimal strength it would take to pull out of that grasp. And yet, in that moment, he completely lost all sight of how a task like that should work. Which muscles should move in which directions.

As the distance between them shrank, all he could think of was how dry his lips felt, and that they were probably chapped. Which meant they would be sharp and likely pointy in places, and god, what if they poked her uncomfortably? Leave it to Richard Poole to find a way to make kissing painful. He should have wetted his lips first. But ah, it was too late to do it now! She was already too close! If he stuck out his tongue now, he'd run a fair chance of licking her, and god that would be embarrassing. And then...

Contact. Richard's eyes remained wide open as Camille's soft, plump lips finally touched his thin, scratchy ones. As least he remembered to pucker. She was too close for him to really be able to see her expression, but he could at least make out that she had her eyes closed, almost serenely, and he was startled when he heard the softest relative of a moan rumble in the back of her throat. The sound shot straight through him, and he so wanted her to make it again. Letting a long-contained sigh escape his nostrils and crash against their joined lips, Richard finally allowed his eyes to slip closed. Hardly knowing what was happening, he adjusted his angle, tilting his head a little to the side, and taking an impossible step closer to the jail cell bars.

They both heard it at the same time. A cough. In a flash, the couple was separating out of the kiss with a smack, and Richard was snapping his head to the side to look at the doorway, a dear-in-the-headlights look pasted across his face.

No one was there. The beads still hung loose in the empty doorway, totally undisturbed. The cough must have come from one of their colleagues, further within the offices as they worked away faithfully at their desks. Somewhat relieved, Richard turned to look back at Camille. And lord she was close.

He took a step back. More accurately, he stumbled backwards, one foot catching on the other one as he tried to beat a hasty retreat. He regained his footing clumsily and began patting down his newly released tie. "Right well...I'll...I'll have Fidel do a check on this pastel Moreau person. See if we can't rule him out completely. And I'll..." he wasn't making eye contact with her anymore. "I'll just, carry on with the investigation I suppose. Right then." And with that, he was gone.

Camille sighed and tipped her head forward against the bar. What had she just done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! And please let me know your thoughts on this one. I have a soft spot for awkward/adorable men, so writing for Richard feels right up my alley. But I am always anxious to hear what you think, so be sure to let me know in the comments below. And the third and final chapter should be up soon!


	3. Summation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all of the kind comments. (You guys are so much fun to write for.) I thought we would close things off with an extra-long chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

In the following days, Richard kept his distance. Fidel and Dwayne both continued to come by regularly, to check on her and just chat about pointless things for a moment. Apparently, ever since the start of this case, Richard had become something of a taskmaster, enforcing late hours on the office and being more of a stickler than ever. Sometimes, Camille thought that the other officers only stopped by because they needed an escape, but she welcomed the diversion.

She also liked their visits because they divulged much more of the case to her than Richard had. Obviously, they wouldn't tell her everything, but she did manage to learn that her prints had been found on the murder weapon and also, there had been a mysterious fire near the crime scene, as if someone had tried to burn evidence. Richard would no doubt employ one of his many science experiments to try to discover what exactly had been burned, so that was good news to her.

The prints on the murder weapon should be concerning, but in fact they weren't. It was her torch after all. Of course her prints were going to be on it. But if hers were, then that meant that the killer hadn't wiped the torch after using it. Which is what she found most peculiar because it meant that their prints should have been on it too. They must have worn gloves. Perhaps that's what they later tried to burn?

She shared this theory with Fidel, and he assured her that that was what Richard thought too. And Camille sighed. She felt like she was playing tag in a pair of weighted shoes. She wanted so desperately to be out there, collecting evidence as it was discovered and fighting for her own freedom. Being relegated to the sidelines like this was one of the worst feelings in the world.

That, and being rejected after a romantic overture.

She had clearly overstepped her boundaries with Richard, and that realization put a nasty, churning feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wished he would come back. Obviously, they needed to talk about what happened. And if it came down to Camille apologizing on her knees and promising never to do it again, she would. Camille couldn't bear the thought that she had maybe ruined the friendship they had so carefully developed these past three years.

She had hoped, of course, that maybe she hadn't been reading him wrong all these years. That maybe the feelings she had developed for him were not in fact one sided. There had been several times, too numerous to count actually, when she could have sworn she saw something akin to desire in his eyes when he looked at her. A sort of fascination, respect, and greedy longing that she recognized as attraction. They had been playing this game for so long now, working themselves into this little dance, where nothing was ever established, but so much was already clear. She thought, a kiss, perhaps...perhaps it was time. And then seeing his reaction to hearing about Pascal? The man was clearly jealous and protective, and maybe even a little hurt at the idea of Camille loving anyone else. How could she possibly have been wrong with that kiss?

And yet, Richard had run. Literally, he moved just about as fast as she had ever seen him move as he retreated out of the cell room. And now, she hadn't looked him in the eye since. The most she actually had seen of him was the day before when her mother had come to visit and Richard had escorted her to the cells. But even then, all Camille had actually seen was his jacketed sleeve and his white hand as he held back the beads in the doorway so that her mother could enter.

Camille had stood and called, "Thank you, Richard!"

And only heard a hasty "Uhhu, yep!" in reply.

And so here she was, day four of her captivity, slowly going crazy wondering about her freedom and the thoughts whirring inside the brilliant... and equally dense mind of a certain British detective. And then...

"Yes! That _has_ to be it!" Richard's voice boomed from the other room. Camille popped up from her cot and moved to the edge of her cage. Occasionally, she could hear voices coming from the other room, and she learned a few days ago that if she stood in the far corner of her cell, she could actually sometimes make out what was being said. Luckily for her, Richard was just excited enough that he was speaking quite loudly. "Dwayne, phone the Commissioner. Tell him NOT TO GET ON THAT PLANE. Fidel, I need you to go back to the beach. I want you to focus...yes! Here...and here. Tell me when you've got it." Next, she heard some familiar bumps and rustling nearer to the door, and she imagined Richard was probably stuffing things into his briefcase. "I," the Inspector continued a moment later, "am going to have another talk with our dear Mrs. Palmer."

A moment later, Camille heard the sounds of people leaving the office, and then soon after that, Dwayne appeared in her doorway, shoving aside the beads and cupping a hand over the mouthpiece of a phone receiver. He grinned at her widely. "I think he's got it!" he said, like a Cheshire cat. And Camille matched the exuberance of his smile as she clapped her hands together in celebration.

\---

It was a little under two hours later that Dwayne finally returned to collect her from her cell. Ten minutes after that, they were pulling up to a large estate Camille had noticed before and always wondered what it looked like on the inside. Apparently, she was about to find out. When they pulled off the main road, Camille was surprised to find a small pool of reporters anxiously waiting outside the estate's formal gateway. Seeing who it was, they all hastily tried to snap her picture through the window and Dwayne pressed on the gas a little firmer. "Sorry about that," he said, "Chief has been trying to keep them at bay, but I think they can smell something is up. We're close to an arrest now."

"It's okay," Camille said, a little shocked, but none the worse for wear.

They parked the car and Dwayne escorted her into the building, where she could hear voices coming from the drawing room. Inside, Richard, Fidel, and the Commissioner were all gathered there along with four other people Camille had never laid eyes on before. A few people looked up and noted her arrival, but most kept intently listening as Richard carried on with his summation. Camille was a little disappointed that she was catching it in the middle, but hopefully one of her teammates would fill in the gaps for her later.

"And things were going mostly according to plan," Richard continued, either not noticing or not acknowledging her arrival, but she didn't blame him. He was in his element.

"Right up until the moment the gun jammed. Now, you knew your window of opportunity was small. His signing engagement was scheduled for half-one. Any minute now, Ms. Fine would be coming to collect him. You had to act quickly. And so, in the heat of the moment, you used the butt of the gun, and bludgeoned the victim to death. But now you had a problem. Your suicide story wasn't going to hold. Anyone might believe Mr. Torrunt could have taken his own life with a gunshot, but certainly not by repeatedly bashing his own head in. You needed to create a murder scene, and quickly. So you disturbed the room, turning a few things over, scattering this and that. Wanted to make it look like a struggle had unfolded. After that, you needed to do several things: You had to ditch the suicide note, which you effectively burned, then you needed to find a suitable scapegoat (almost anyone would do). But more embarrassingly, you had to first tell your partner that your suicide plan hadn't worked. I can't imagine that went terribly well."

Camille looked over the unfamiliar faces in the room. She tried to determine, based on body posture, who the two suspects were. It didn't take her long to settle on two suspicious looking young people. Both probably in their twenties, Caucasian, with dark brown hair, one male and one female. The girl was beginning to look worried, and the man seemed to get closer and closer to exploding with every word that came out of Richard's mouth. His arms were crossed over his chest, a deep scowl was etched into his brow, and his skin was turning an increasing shade of red. Actually, now that she really looked at him, she thought she recognized him from somewhere, but she couldn't place it.

Then she tuned back in to Richard's explanation of the case and noticed he was now showing two photos of the victim. Several of the civilians in the room turned and looked away from the bloody images, but Camille leaned forward to take in the details.

"Notice anything?" Richard asked, looking out at the crowd like a professor testing his classroom. "It's a bit like a game of spot the difference, isn't it? Luckily for our investigation, Sergeant Best here happens to be fairly good at those games, and he pointed out to me something that I found very interesting indeed. See there?" Richard pointed to one of the gashes on the victim's brow. "...And there? Wounds to the victim's cranium that are consistent with the apparent murder weapon, but which...strangely, do not appear anywhere in these photographs here. See?" He pointed to the second image. Camille squinted her eyes to focus from her vantage point. Sure as the world, the wounds were gone.

Richard went on, "The pictures we took at the crime scene, when the body was first discovered, are somehow lacking these wounds. But they show up later here, in the medical examiner's documentation. That's odd, isn't it?"

Richard let the silence draw out as he surveyed the group again, a smug expression on his face. He tossed both of the photographs onto a nearby table, and then turned his full attention onto the man Camille had recognized. "Being the paramedic on the scene, Mr. Flanders, it gave you a unique opportunity, didn't it? After leaving the crime scene, but before arriving at the airport to deliver the body, I believe you must have stopped somewhere en route and delivered a few more choice blows to your cousin's already dead victim. This time, with the weapon you _intended_ us to find, and which, in fact, we _did_ find: The torch you had lifted from Sergeant Bordey earlier that same day."

"You can't prove any of this," Flanders spat vindictively.

"Ah," Richard clutched a hand over his heart. "A crushing defense. And a few hours ago, you would have been right. But I asked Sergeant Best here to sweep the beach between the crime scene and the airport. There were only a handful of viable places where you could have pulled off, after all. You want to know the remarkable thing about handguns? They really don't float so well." From apparently nowhere, Richard produced a pistol, balancing it on the end of a pencil through the trigger guard. "Now, I wonder if you remembered to wipe this one down. You were so thoughtful, the first time round, to make sure you left Sergeant Bordey's fingerprints on the supposed murder weapon. Now granted, this item has been in the sea for the past eighty-four hours, give or take. But you take a bit of washing soda, a bit of zinc sulfate, some distilled water, a simple dye and some commercial detergent, and yeah...I reckon I can get a print from this. Maybe even a few." He examined the weapon more closely. "And that looks like it might be blood. Is that blood?" he asked, turning to Fidel and indicating a small smudge, deep in the tight rivets of the handle.

"It might be, sir."

"It might be blood," Richard repeated, looking back at the suspects. "If that turns out to belong to Mr. Torrunt, it might be a hard one to explain, don't you think? You see, in your efforts to appropriately adorn your replacement murder weapon, you created an inconsistency that would eventually set my team on the very well-concealed path to discovering the truth: That Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey did not in fact murder a movie star, despite all of the evidence apparently suggesting that she did. No, it was in fact two jilted, and yet very shrewd cousins, looking for a bigger cut of the pie."

He stared down the two suspects for a moment longer, looking like a stern father disappointed in his trouble-making teens. Then Richard looked up at his team and said, "Dwayne, Fidel," and Camille felt Dwayne reaching behind her to uncuff her wrists.

"Looks like I'll be needing these," he said, trying to hide his smile.

"You can have them," Camille whispered back gladly.

As the suspects were read their rights and taken into custody, the Commissioner approached Camille and extended his hand. "I must say, it is a relief to have you back, Sergeant Bordey. I hope you will excuse the treatment you have received these past few days, but I am sure you will understand the force's need to remain impartial during an investigation such as this."

Camille shook the hand that was offered to her. Truth be told, she was still fairly irked at having been locked up throughout such an important case, but deep down she understood the reasons. And she knew this was probably the closest thing she was going to get to an apology. "Of course, sir. I completely understand. And it's good to be back." As she said this, she hazarded a glance over in Richard's direction, and she thought she caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye as he repacked his briefcase.

The Commissioner followed her eyeline and then said, "Ah yes, your team seemed well motivated in solving this case. I believe the Inspector was especially keen to see your release."

Richard approached the conversation, unaware that it was now about him. And the Commissioner continued, "No doubt, he will need to get some well-deserved rest after this one. I understand you put in many long hours on this case, Inspector."

Richard wiped a hanky over his brow and shot a slightly uncomfortable glance over at Camille. "Ah yes, well, that is the job, isn't it?" he answered modestly.

"At any rate," Dwayne said, he and Fidel rejoining the group after having secured the prisoners in the police jeep. "He can hardly pass out yet. Not before having a few drinks at Catherine's to celebrate!"

The group seemed well pleased with this idea...except a certain reticent look did pass between the Inspector and his newly-released partner.

\---

The celebration at Catherine's was a lively one. Even the Commissioner stayed for the first drink. Camille's colleagues gladly filled her in on the remaining details of the case, and then conversation happily moved on to less dire topics. There was laughing, and drinking, and a little eating, and then more drinking and laughing. All throughout the evening, Camille tried not to pass too many glances over at Richard, but every time she _did_ , she could swear she saw him quickly divert his gaze.

As Fidel and Dwayne were distracted with their own conversation, Camille looked down at her wrists. There were slight markings where the handcuffs had worn her skin a little raw. It was subtle; if you weren't looking for it, you probably wouldn't even notice. Tomorrow, the marks would likely be gone, but right now, they seemed particularly symbolic to her. There had been a couple of times, as she lay in her dark cell at night, trying to fall asleep, that she had thought about the possibility of not getting out. What if the team _couldn't_ find the evidence to exonerate her? What if she _did_ go to trial, and even worse, prison, for a crime she didn't commit? She was proud of the work they did, but she knew the system wasn't perfect. On occasion, innocent people _were_ convicted of someone else's crimes. What if that would become _her_ story?

Now, seeing the markings on her skin, the evidence that what once was there was not there anymore, she felt a wave of gratitude sweep over her. She looked up at Richard, and found him already staring at her. This time, he did not look away. Instead, he dropped his eyes to her wrists, and then lifted them again to meet her gaze. And he looked at her like he understood what had just been going through her mind.

She smiled softly at him and mouthed the words, "Thank you."

Richard blinked at her, a tiny smile tugging at one side of his mouth, and mouthed back the words, "You're welcome."

As the evening wore on, Fidel eventually stood from the table, saying that he needed to return to his family. And the others promptly followed suit. Richard stood and excused himself from the others and Camille quickly got up and offered to drive him home.

"That won't be necessary," he tried to protest, but everyone united against him to say that his little beach shack was too far away to comfortably walk, and that Camille had barely drunk anything all night (mostly because she intended to make this offer at the end of the night. It was probably her only chance to get a moment alone with Richard. But she didn't feel the need to say so out loud). In the end, Richard conceded to the group and a silence fell between him and Camille as they both made their way outside.

What made for a long walk also made for a relatively short drive, and it wasn't long before Camille was pulling off of the road and onto the beach by his little house. Throughout the brief journey, she had been trying to drive slowly, just to give herself more time to think, but she still wasn't exactly certain what to say. She mostly wanted to know how he felt, what _his_ take on the situation was. But there was obviously no way that he would initiate that conversation himself.

"Thank you for the ride," Richard said, and then quickly exited the jeep after it had come to a complete stop.

He was already halfway to his shack in the time it took her to climb out of the vehicle and close the door behind her. "Richard," she called, effectively stopping him in his tracks. She saw him hang his head for a moment, readjusting his grip on his briefcase before turning his body halfway around to look at her from the side.

"Yes?" he replied.

Camille crossed her arms over her chest and gave a little shrug, looking off towards the sea as she wondered how to begin the conversation. "Don't you think we should probably discuss it?" she finally asked.

Richard bit his bottom lip and quirked his head slightly to the side. "Discuss what? Exactly?" he replied.

Camille barely kept from rolling her eyes, and instead she shifted her weight onto her other foot and gave him a look that said _'Really?'_

Richard tapped one foot on the shifting sand nervously and dropped his gaze away from her, needlessly adjusting his grip on the briefcase once again. "Oh that," he said, and it came out a little louder than he had intended. "Yes, I suppose we might."

She had obviously made him uncomfortable. Richard Poole would never be the sort of man to open himself up to a relationship like the one she wanted. Especially not a workplace relationship. He was too bridled, too professional to allow that sort of indecency between colleagues. Her move in the jail cell had been foolish at best, and catastrophic at worst. If she wanted any hope of restoring her work relationship with him, and more importantly, her friendship with him, then she had a feeling she needed to act quickly. "I just wanted to apologize," she said, right as he seemed to have been about to speak.

He paused, and she thought she saw something like disappointment crash over his face for an instant. "Oh," he said. "You did?"

_That_ was interesting. Perhaps she had read him wrong?

Maybe this was a bad idea, but something in the little tone of his voice gave her a small smidgen of restored hope. "Well...I don't mean apologize for the actual...you know. No, but the timing," she said, nodding at her own recovery. "The timing, when you were in the middle of such a hard case. I didn't think that through. I am sorry if it caused...any problems for you."

"Right..." he said, nodding. He was looking her in the eye now, probably the longest prolonged period of eye contact they had shared since that moment in her cell several days ago. She was usually fairly good at reading him, but as he stared at her and continued to nod for much longer than necessary, she honestly had no idea what was going through his head.

"Well, no. Truth be told," he began after some time, "Truth be told, I didn't, actually...like it."

Camille's brows shot up and her mouth gaped open. She tried her best to recover quickly as she felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Oh! Well...umm...okay then." Now she was the one who couldn't meet his eyes. She ducked her head in embarrassment and moved a strand of hair behind her ear, turning to look out once again at the sea.

"No, wait," Richard said, taking a step toward her and holding out a hand urgently. "I didn't mean...That is to say," he stopped his march towards her when she looked back up at him. With a huff, he set his shoulders and tried desperately to think of the right words. "You just caught me a little off guard. When I say I didn't like it, what I really mean is...I wasn't prepared for it and so I didn't like, how I handled it."

Again, she tucked a stray clump of hair behind her ear as she watched him, a hopeful expression evident on her face.

"If I had it to do over again," Richard continued slowly, "I should like to think that I would have handled things differently."

Camille cocked an eyebrow at him. " _If_ you had it to do over again?" she repeated.

She watched as Richard gulped once, before giving a single nod and saying, "Yes."

Camille smiled a little coyly and intentionally opened up her body posture. Whereas she had been fairly guarded before, with her arms crossed over her chest and her chin tucked low, now she placed one hand on her hip, draped the other arm across the side mirror of the police jeep, and leaned back against the vehicle's door. "Hmm," was the only verbal observation she made.

Richard stood there awkwardly in the sand, and allowed himself to look her over, from eyes to toes to eyes. He was working to muster up the courage, she could tell. "Right," she heard him say, almost to himself, and his tongue darted out of his mouth quickly to lick his lips. He set a steady pace towards her, but then one stride seemed to descend into slow motion as he held one finger up into the air. "Just one thought," he said, coming to a halt. "I feel we should establish...some sort of conditions here."

She quirked an eyebrow and straightened up a little from her relaxed position. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "Given that we both hold the positions we do, I think it's important to establish that, at no point can we let any of this affect our duties. Whether at the office, or at a crime scene," his creed faltered a little when he registered the look she was giving him, almost predatory in nature. He tried to regather his thoughts. "We, umm...must remain...completely professional. At all times."

"Hmm, and what about after hours?" she asked innocently.

Even in the moonlight, she was fairly certain she could see the cheery, pink hue flood his face. He cleared his throat and said, "Yes, well...that, of course, would be a...different situation."

She smiled at him again, surprised by this response, but certainly not upset by it. "In that case, I agree." She reached out her hand to him formally.

He looked down at it and then back up at her, clearly catching the degree of amusement on her face, but taking her hand and shaking it nonetheless.

There. A deal was a deal. Now back to the fun bit.

"So, Detective Inspector Richard Poole," she said, standing up straight and letting her arms fall to her sides. "If you had it to do over again...what might you have done differently?" She stood before him like a blank canvas, and waited.

Richard's eyes were drawn down to her lips, and he self-consciously wetted his own again. When he looked back up at her, she was somewhat surprised to find a certain look of confidence on his face. Bending over, but never breaking from her gaze, he gingerly set his briefcase down on the ground, not caring as it tipped over in the sand. Gulping once, he took another step forward, reaching out with his hands, first his left, then his right, and resting each on her hips. Camille was well pleased with this, and willingly followed his prodding as he gently pushed her back, all the way until her rear came in contact with the jeep's wheel well behind her. After that, he took another step forward, invading her personal space. They weren't exactly pressed up against one another yet, but Camille felt as though, if she breathed too deeply, then they would be.

"I feel I should warn you," Richard began, the slight tremor through his voice betraying the nerves he actually felt. "This isn't an area in which I really-"

" _Shh_ ," Camille hushed him, reaching up to place both hands on either side of his face. "No more disclaimers, Richard."

"Okay," he whispered. And after one more moment of hesitation, he closed the gap.

His lips were softer this time, and more deliberate. She passively replied to his movements, letting him set the pace. Camille let one hand drop down to his shoulder while the other snaked around to the back of his neck. She arched her back slightly as he pushed forward, leaning over her and increasing the angle of his kiss. She moaned a little, pleased with his initiative, and she could have sworn she felt him shiver in response. Then, after a few close-mouthed kisses, Richard slowly opened his own. And then nothing. It was like he wasn't quite sure where to go from there. So, Camille followed his example and showed a little initiative of her own. She kissed him deeply, allowing her tongue to reach forward and explore him.  And then Richard was the one moaning.

They kissed like that for several minutes (God only knows how long it actually was). Eventually, she felt Richard begin to pull away slowly. He ended by placing two more tiny kisses on her lips, as if he were thanking them, and then he pulled his head fully away from her.

Camille opened her eyes and was met by his steely green ones, looking out at her from under lazy lids. She looked down at his lips, and a feeling of pride swelled inside of her when she saw how red and ragged they were. She wasn't wearing any makeup, so it hadn't been from lipstick. It was just from her. That caused her to smile.

Richard swallowed dryly. "That's how I would have done it," he said in conclusion.

Her smile intensified. "Yes, well," she said, looking down and flattening a hand over his tie and collar. She just couldn't quit touching him now that he was finally this close. "I must say, I noticed a difference."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! I really hope you guys enjoyed this story! I have certainly enjoyed writing it, and it has been a ton of fun sharing it with you. As I've said before, I really appreciate the warm reception this fandom has had to myself and this little story. I hope to write more for DiP. Perhaps even a companion piece for this final chapter, written from Richard's POV. I thought of several little scenes that would have been fun to explore from his perspective, but seeing as how I had already dedicated this chapter to Camille's pov, I couldn't really include them. So perhaps I might be able to write a little one-shot to explain Richard's own experiences through these final scene. But regardless of all that, you will hopefully be seeing SOME KIND of DiP story from me again in the future. Like I said, I really loved writing this one. 
> 
> I am very eager to hear your thoughts on this final chapter, so please leave them in the comments below. Thanks guys!
> 
> \--Monker


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